Have I Ever Told You?
by fakiagirl
Summary: USUK. Alfred began writing letters a long time ago, and he has simply never stopped. It is hard to bare your heart to someone when you believe they do not return your feelings; it is easy when you know they will never find out. Non-AU.
1. Prologue

_Have I Ever Told You?_

* * *

><p><em>Prologue<em>

"You should write to him."

Arthur scowled at his cup of tea. "Certainly not."

Francis leaned over the back of the ornately decorated couch and looked down at Arthur. "You can't tell me you have nothing to say. You've always been very . . . verbose."

Arthur snorted, knowing that Francis was thinking of less than flattering instances. "That's one way to put it."

"_Mon ami. . . ._" Francis hesitated. He knew this was delicate ground he was treading on. "Alfred has always been one to value the written word. I know it is against your nature to write down your true thoughts, but clearly talking face-to-face is getting you nowhere."

"Yes, you and Alfred and writing things down," Arthur said, acid dripping from his voice. "Him and his Decl– his Bill of Rights–" (Francis winced at Arthur's near slip; he knew it pained him) "And you and your Declaration of the Rights of Man or whatever. I'm sure you understand each other better than I understand either of you anyway."

Francis bit back a comment and made his way around to the front of the couch. He sat down next to Arthur and poured himself a cup of tea (mostly to be polite, and to force himself to be as tactful as possible). He took a sugar cube from the bowl and delicately placed it in his tea. "I really think he wouldn't mind hearing from you more regularly."

Arthur set down his teacup with a sharp click. "I'm not against sending him regular correspondence. I'm against using it as some sort of _therapy, _as you seem to be suggesting. I don't _need _therapy."

Francis sighed. "I simply think you would benefit from more contact than you've been getting." Arthur's eyes narrowed and Francis quickly backed down. "Ah, I mean, you should communicate with him more. Perhaps you do not realize it, but I think he misses you."

"Right," Arthur said. He did not sound impressed.

"I simply think it might be more fruitful than you expect," Francis said softly.

Once Francis had left, Arthur went into his study and found his fountain pen. He pulled out a sheet of paper and a bottle of ink and set them on his desk. He dipped the nib of the pen in the ink, very carefully, and looked at the wide expanse of the paper. He had written letters to Alfred before. They had always had a purpose, yes, but they had still been about casual matters, sometimes. A friendly letter was surely hardly any different. _A "Dear Alfred" seems like a safe way to start, _he thought, and lowered the pen. He stopped it just above the paper. _"Dear" Alfred? Would simply "Alfred" be better? _His eyes narrowed. His hand withdrew, then returned again. He freshened the ink on his pen. Perhaps he should date it first. He moved his pen to the upper righthand corner.

His hand clenched into a fist around the pen. He set it down on the desk angrily and then stood up. He left the room, the door swinging shut behind him. Francis was right. He could not write down his Constitution because it was too close to his heart, and neither could he pen a letter to Alfred in which he did not lie.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note:<em> I know it's basically a death sentence to my other fic to start another one concurrently, but it's really not, I swear! I'm just a little stuck at the moment, and I've been wanting to write this story for a long time. My updates for my other one shouldn't be _too _much slower. Also, this fic is going to have crazy short chapters sometimes. Sorry. ^^

**Edit:** Bowtiecat has made a wonderful fanart for this story and you should definitely check it out! It is the cover for this story, but you should look at the full version on her deviantart (same name). The link is in my profile.


	2. Chapter 1:  The XYZ Affair

_Chapter 1: The XYZ Affair (1798)_

Alfred ran down the long, ornately decorated hall of Francis's house in Paris, clutching notes and papers to his chest. "I cannot be late, I cannot be late," he muttered. The whole reason he was there was to _prevent _a war between himself and France, not make things worse. It was times like these that he hated, because his inexperience started to show, and other countries started thinking they were justified in looking down on him. But he had finally, finally made a treaty with Arthur! _The Jay Treaty, _he called it. Things had been finally looking up, but then Francis had to take offense. "These stupid countries have hissy fits over everything," he mumbled, perhaps too loudly. He careened around a corner and ran straight into Francis Bonnefoy. The papers flew over his head and he landed with a sharp noise on his backside on the smooth, polished floors.

When the papers settled, Alfred sat up, mumbling apologies. When he saw who it was, he tried not to blanch. "Haha, Francis! Hey!" he said, diving for the nearest papers. "I was just on my way to the meeting! Look at all these notes, haha."

Francis did not look amused, though he bent down and picked up a few papers at his feet, glancing at them as he did so. "I should hope so, though I am curious as to where you think you're going. You're going in entirely the wrong direction."

"What? Really?" Alfred asked distractedly. Where was the letter?

Francis handed him the papers he had collected and stood up, smoothing out a wrinkle in his breeches. "It's two doors back on your left."

"Ah, thank you very much," Alfred said. Hadn't Francis picked up more papers than the three he had handed back? He didn't have an opportunity to ask, because Francis brushed past him and clicked down the hall in his exquisitely buttoned shoes. Alfred sighed. He had no choice but to follow him, and after a final glance around the hall, he hurried after him.

The meeting did not go well. While their respective diplomats were getting the formalities out of the way, Alfred tried to subtly organize and shift through his papers. He had gone through them three times before he concluded that the letter was definitely not there. He felt panic rising in his throat, threatening to smother him, and he looked around the room with wide eyes. Where could he possibly have put it? Had he lost it when he dropped the papers? He couldn't have. Had Francis seen it? The thought made his hands tremble slightly. He put them firmly in his lap. An exclamation of dismay from one of his diplomats brought his attention back to the meeting.

"Are you, Sir, suggesting we give you a _bribe?" _

"I am doing nothing of the sort," came the smooth French accent. "I am merely suggesting that some currency might make this agreement come to a more satisfactory conclusion."

Alfred's eyes snapped to Francis. He was relaxed in his chair and observing the proceedings with a glint of satisfaction in his eye. Alfred was so angry he almost completely forgot about the letter.

"Millions for defense, sir, but not one cent for tribute!" cried one of Alfred's delegates. He could not have said it better himself.

The meeting was swiftly declared over and there was much angry shuffling of papers. "Oh, and Alfred," Francis called as Alfred prepared to stomp out angrily with his delegates, "If you find you're missing any paperwork, just let me know." He smiled blandly and Alfred scowled. Inside, he was shaking from anger and fear. _He knows, _Alfred thought, as he stormed out of the building. _He read it. _How had he begun it, again?

_My dear Arthur _(Oh God, he had started it with "My dear Arthur),

_I have been thinking of you often as of late. _(Something about the sky or such nonsense; then:) _I fear that with our latest agreement, we have entered upon a relationship utterly unlike the one we had before it, and so utterly unlike the one I had once hoped to have. If you could know how often my thoughts fly to you, you –_

He couldn't remember the rest of it, but even that was enough. He bit his lip, fighting the angry tears stinging his eyes. And God, he had signed it! Signed it, "_Yours always, Alfred." _Francis would know immediately what he had meant. He had never planned to send it, of course. It was not the first unsent letter he had written to Arthur, though it was close to it. _You are an idiot, _he told himself. _Francis is going to use it against you. You know he is. It's only a matter of time. _

When Alfred returned home, he was bitter. He told his people all about the insult Francis had given him, trying to _bribe _him (ignorant as Alfred was, of course, of the European custom), thinking that Alfred would stoop so low! And all the while Alfred waited in agony for Francis to make an announcement to the world: "Alfred Jones, our newest country, is in love with the man who raised him!" Or perhaps it would come in the form of a letter, blackmail. What if Francis told Arthur? _That _was the option that made Alfred lie awake at night. What would Arthur do? Probably never speak to him again. _And maybe that would be best, _thought Alfred, curling into a ball beneath the covers. _Because then I would never have to make up things to say to him again. _A single tear ran down Alfred's cheek, and he squeezed his eyes shut. _I would never again have to see his face. _

Meanwhile, Francis brooded in his office. When he had seen the "_My dear Arthur" _he had tucked the letter in his pocket without thinking. He had read it all the way through twice now, though, and it was altogether not what he had expected. It was clearly a love letter. Had Alfred intended to send it? Francis eventually decided that he had not. It was too soon after, and Alfred had to know that he was still too young for Arthur to take him seriously. But that was the question, wasn't it? What _did_ Arthur think of young Alfred? Francis put the letter away in a drawer. It seemed likely that it would come in handy later, though he didn't know how. Until then, he would keep it, and say nothing of it.

Then the First World War came around. The look on Arthur's face when he heard that Alfred had _finally _joined the war all but confirmed Francis's suspicions about what Arthur thought about Alfred, though he didn't have a chance to research it further because the Second World War followed close after. Arthur and Alfred seemed to be working together more closely than before, but Francis was distracted and had his own country to worry about. Then the war ended and Ivan started acting strangely.

In 1959, Francis got a new boss. This new boss was very concerned about what Ivan might do, as they all were, and he was also very concerned about the apparent dependence of many European countries (Francis himself included) on the nuclear strength of Alfred. Francis could not agree more when his boss began to expand and strengthen Francis's own plans for a complete nuclear arsenal. Arthur was being awfully supportive of Alfred, Francis noted, and pushy about what they should do to protect themselves from Ivan. When Francis's boss asked him to find a way to keep Arthur and Alfred apart, and thus keep them from convincing the other countries of anything stupid, Francis thought of the letter.

He contacted a man of his who was posing as a servant in Alfred's house. It wasn't long before he found exactly what Francis was looking for: A locked desk drawer that held letters addressed to one "Arthur" dating back to the 1790s. Interestingly, not a single one after 1798 was signed, but there was no mistaking who had written them. There were more of them than Francis would have dreamed of, and not all of them were love letters. Oh no. A few of them were rancorous and spoke of hate.

Francis was sly, Francis was patient, and when he held one in his hands, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

* * *

><p>Spring of – what year was it now? 1962? Arthur sighed. He was having a hard time. He had applied to the European Communities – a very important series of bodies at the moment – but Francis's new boss was fighting hard to make sure that his application was suspended, and remained that way. He didn't understand why Francis had to be so <em>stubborn <em>sometimes. Cutting him out of a group like that was hardly helpful to anyone involved. He and Alfred had been growing closer in recent years, but how could Francis find that threatening? And Alfred – he seen Alfred again only a few weeks earlier for a meeting. But it had been strange, seeing him so tense. Ivan was putting all of them on edge, he supposed. He flipped open the mailbox and took out the post. He began to walk back up the walkway to his house, flipping through the mail as he did so. _Bill . . . bill . . . junk . . . bill. . . . _His fingers paused on the last letter, and he slowed. It was a while envelope that was perfectly blank, without even his address or a stamp on it. He turned it over. It was sealed. _Anthrax? _he wondered idly. He doubted it. He stopped on the walkway and ripped it open. _Dear Arthur, _it said;

_I saw you at the meeting this morning, as I'm sure you know. I was surprised at what memories it brought back. After all, it hasn't been so long since I saw you last. They were mostly bad memories, which was strange. I'm sure you'll be happy to hear that they were mostly my fault, though. Maybe a little bit yours, since you're so thick-headed. _

_Anyway, because of that, it was hard to tell whether I was happy to see you or not. It's always so confusing, especially when you glare at me like you do. I'm always happy at first, but then you start talking. You seem determined to hurt me. I don't understand why. That should all be behind us. _

_But I guess I must have been happy to see you, because now that you're not here, I miss you really terribly. I guess that's why it's always so confusing to see you; it always hurts afterwards. _

_I hope you're enjoying the sun. Oh wait – it's probably pouring at your place. _

Arthur frowned. "It's perfectly sunny," he muttered. He flipped the paper over, but the back was as blank as the envelope. He skimmed the letter again. It was undated and unsigned. "Strange," he said, and continued on into his house, deep in thought. Who could it have possibly have been from? It didn't even read like a real letter. It rambled and was far too casual. "Dear Arthur," it said. Maybe it was supposed to be to another Arthur? He dumped the junk mail in the recycling bin and spread out the other letters on his desk. He put the bills in a neat stack, thinking. Of course he always suspected Francis when something strange arrived on his doorstep, but this didn't seem like him at all. In fact, he couldn't see how he could possibly be related to this incident. He carefully folded up the letter and put it back in its envelope. After a moment of hesitation, he stuck it in the bottom desk drawer. He would think about it more later.

Exactly a week later, an identical envelop showed up in Arthur's mailbox. This one was addressed merely to "Arthur" and read like a note that had been scribbled out in a matter of seconds.

A week after that, the third letter came. This one was undeniably a love letter, and Arthur began to have the sneaking suspicion that either he had a secret admirer, or someone was terribly mistaken.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: <em>The meeting between Francis and Alfred is a rough summary of the XYZ Affair (see Wikipedia for more info), which took place in Paris in 1798. The "Millions for defense, sir, but not one cent for tribute!" quote was lifted wholesale from the Wikipedia article on the subject, though it is cited as being what they actually said. The Jay Treaty (or the Treaty of London of 1974) was a treaty between the US and Britain.

Francis's new boss is Charles de Gaulle, President from 1959-1969, and he was a very strong advocate for France's independence from other countries. See Wikipedia for details.


	3. Chapter 2: The War Between the States

_Chapter 2: The Civil War, or The War Between the States (1861-1865)_

Arthur tried to think of everyone he knew and eliminate the people who it absolutely could not be. He ended up with absolutely no one left, so he gave up. Every single time he received one of the strange letters, he thought of Alfred, but he knew that Alfred would never, ever, in a million years send him anything even close to what he was receiving. He had promised to give up on Alfred many, many years ago, but the letters tore through his defenses like nothing else – easier, even, than a look into Alfred's calm blue eyes (for they were rarely calm).

Most of the letters were not sappy, though several of them were. Most of them were reflective, flavored with a significant amount of sadness, regret, and nostalgia. Since these were almost the exact emotions Arthur associated with Alfred, he automatically took each word with as much weight as if they had been signed "Alfred Jones," despite what he tried to tell himself. It was no longer with curiosity that he read the letters. He read the letters with a voracious need to see beyond the words, to see into the soul that had written them. So when Arthur read the letter dated April, 1861, he felt as though his heart was breaking.

(It was April of 1861. Alfred sat alone in his study, gazing out the window. He realized what he had been thinking for several days now: The pain was worse. The pressure in his head – that had been there for months, years even, if he thought about it. But the pain was more recent. It had started as an ache in his chest, somewhere deep, but it had slowly been turning into a hard line, dividing him in two. It had been last night when he had realized why he felt so strange; he was scared. He wanted to cry out for help, but couldn't. It wasn't pride that stopped him. He simply could not ask another country to fight with him, against himself.

He pulled a sheet of paper from the stack on his desk, and dipped the pen in the inkwell. He stared at the paper in silence, twisting the pen between his fingers. _Arthur, _he thought, and when he started writing, it came easily. _Arthur, _

_I feel as if I am going insane. It will only take the slightest thing to tip me over. Is this what it felt like for you? You told me the stories, but I never realized. I can never remember being so terrified before. _

The last words hurt to write, but they were true. He needed to admit that to himself, even if he would never admit it to anyone else.

_I wish we were closer, so that I could see you. The distance is too much for me to cross right now. I'm not asking you for help, or even advice. I'm not even asking, I'm just telling you: I think that if you were here, it would make the pain easier to bear, and make it a little easier to remember who I am. I don't know who I am sometimes. Have you ever forgotten who you are? It's awful. It's so much worse than the pain. _

_I need you. I can't even tell you that. _

_Maybe I will if this ever ends. _

Alfred set the pen down, and waited for the ink to dry. He would not sign it, because he was not going to send it. The ink dried, but he did not notice. He waited. It did not take long. He felt the sharp pain in his chest and winced, involuntarily touching the spot. He did not need to look down to know that a scratch had appeared. It had not pierced his skin as he had expected to. There was no blood, but it stung, and it had made the pain inside of him grow almost unbearable. _It has started, _he thought, but did not move. No, he had to wait for the President to hear the news. How long did it take? Hours? Days? He could not tell. The President burst into the room, finding Alfred still sitting at his desk, staring vacantly through the window into the April sunshine. "Fort Sumter has been attacked," he said.

"I know." Alfred finally stood. He put the piece of paper in a drawer and locked it. He put the key away safely, deep in his pocket. He turned and looked Abraham Lincoln in the eyes.

"I am calling for volunteers," the President said.

"Okay," replied Alfred.

That was when Alfred lost his mind. When he regained it, four years later, the line down his chest had become a ragged gash. It did not heal cleanly.)


	4. Chapter 3: End of the US Frontier

_Chapter 3: 1890, End of the US Frontier_

_Arthur, _

_I hate you. I hate you so goddamn much. What is this? Is this your idea of decency, staying out of it? Being the gentleman? Let me tell you: It's not. My men are dying all around me. I'm fighting as hard as I can, and it's just not hard enough. _

_At least you're staying true to your beliefs. I always knew you wanted me dead after I rebelled. _

The words tore through Arthur like a knife. He found the date, smudged and faded: 1862. Stalemate on both sides, and then the beginning of a losing streak for the Confederacy. The fighting had been desperate. Was the letter from the Confederate side? He didn't really know. He had never really known what had happened to Alfred in those years. He had hardly seen him.

Arthur stood in his study, staring at the wall. _Did he really think that badly of me? _All the other letters had been gentle, kind. This, though. . . . "He was going through a hard time," Arthur murmured to himself. The letter folded and unfolded in his hands. The paper was thin and brittle. Too many folds and he would destroy it. He set it on his desk, and then he sat down. He put his head in his hands. "Oh Alfred," he whispered. "What did I do to you?"

* * *

><p>Arthur opened the next letter with trembling hands, now afraid of what it might hold. The letters had long since slowed to a trickle of one a month, and it had drawn out his worrying far longer than he would have liked. He needn't have worried; this letter was dated 1891, and it was short and joyful.<p>

_Dear Arthur, _

_I'm done growing! I'm not happy about that, not really, but I've really done it! I grown as much as I can, and much faster than you ever did. Manifest Destiny nonsense, huh? But it worked! _

This one had almost been signed. There was a blot of ink where the signature had been scribbled out.

Arthur prodded around in his history book collection and found the volume he usually tried to avoid opening: _History of the United States of America. _He blew the dust off it and opened it. It was several years out of date, but that didn't really matter, did it? He could remember everything that had happened in the past few years.

_1890 – The U.S. Census finds that the Frontier has come to an end. _

Arthur felt a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. So that was when Alfred had stopped growing at his alarming pace, was it? 1890.

He put the book back on the shelf.

* * *

><p>During meetings, Arthur had developed the hobby of taking notes to stay awake. They weren't very in-depth notes; every few minutes, he would jot down a bullet point with a brief summary of what had just been said. (Yes, sometimes his strategy was more transparent than others. He had been know to take notes consisting of: <em>War; War; The war; More war; Weapons for the war, <em>but at least it kept him conscious, if barely.) So Arthur was carefully penning _Agricultural imports have improved _when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Alfred was also writing something. Arthur raised his head to stare at this uncommon occurrence. Alfred generally dealt with meetings by either taking control of the conversation or falling asleep.

Alfred's forehead was furrowed in concentration. He clearly wasn't doodling or writing a grocery list; whatever he was writing, he was writing a lot of it.

_A letter? _wondered Arthur, and he began to tap his pen against his notebook in thought. _What could he be saying? _

" . . . which I imagine would also be in England's best interest."

Arthur's head jerked up. "What?"

Norway looked at him. "Increased apple production."

"Of course," Arthur said, with no real idea of what he was agreeing with. Norway turned back to the rest of the countries and continued with his speech. Arthur's attention immediately drifted back to Alfred. He was still writing. Arthur sat back in his seat. _It wouldn't be a bad letter, would it? I've hardly spoken to him lately. I haven't done anything to anger him. _He studied the way Alfred's mouth was slightly tense, just enough for it to be evident that he was serious. But he was never serious.

Lately, Arthur had begun to think more about the letters. He was curious as to why Alfred would have written them in the first place. Was he lonely? Was that it? Arthur had never thought of Alfred as being a lonely country, as he seemed to pride himself on being as connected as possible – but then again, Arthur was well aware how different business relationships were from true friendship. The letters revealed some part of Alfred he never showed to the rest of the world, and Arthur felt a sudden longing to reciprocate somehow, to tell Alfred what he truly thought. . . . _When I see you, I think of sunshine and the sky. I know that's what you want others to think of when they see you – freedom, unfettered. You've always meant freedom to me, since the time you were small. I have always been bound by the sea, but you, you seem to be bound by nothing. I know it is an illusion, for you are just as bound to the land as the rest of us, but you've never seemed to mind. Perhaps that is what makes you seem free; you have never wanted to be anything but what you are, and now that you have achieved that, you are content. _

But the words could never be said, and a voice broke through his reverie; "I believe it is time we broke for lunch." Arthur's attention snapped back to the present. Alfred was quickly folding his paper and tucking it in his folder. Everyone stood up, stretched, and began to head towards the doors and into the dining hall. Alfred was out of the room before Arthur was, and Arthur was suddenly overcome with the feeling of a lost opportunity – though it had been an opportunity from many, many years past.

Shortly after that, the letters took a turn for the worse.


	5. Chapter 4: Once Again

_Author's note: _(Fff, yeah, super fast update.) Okay, so I totally screwed up my historical reason for why Francis would want to get back at Arthur. -.-' There was really nothing in WWII to support anti-British sentiment in France, since even after the whole Vichy government thing (which I just kind of ran with) the French welcomed them as liberators. Thank you to Trumpet-Geek for pointing that out! I am replacing this with a (hopefully) accurate historical situation, and I've updated Chapter 1 to account for it.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 4: Once Again<em>

Arthur stared at the letters spread out on his desk, unbelieving. His eyes caught words, phrases, that had been collecting over months, years now, even. _I hate you. I know you've always hated me, but can't you forgive me just this once? If only you hadn't been so pig-headed. Of course I'm still a child in your eyes. I always knew you wanted me dead. _

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. _Is this what it has come to? _he wondered. _I mean nothing to him but a figurehead that has always spouted disapproval? _He did not care that the letters had become jumbled, were no longer in any sort of order. He had been careful to keep them in the order they arrived, as it was usually roughly chronological, but lately there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to what order he received them in. They spanned his entire history with Alfred, and he wanted to burn them all.

Clearly someone wanted to hurt him. Whether that was Alfred or not, he did not know any longer. And he no longer cared.

* * *

><p>"Hey Artie, wanna get some coffee? This meeting has left me totally drained." Alfred grinned at him, his teeth white in the sharp light of the conference room. Everyone was leaving. The meeting was over.<p>

"Hello America," Arthur said, slightly irritated, but he didn't say no. "Please, at least address me as England during meetings. And don't you mean 'bored'? You slept through almost the entire thing."

"Yeah, whatever. I still want coffee." Alfred's smile didn't dampen.

They walked out together onto the street. "So, how you been? Economy good and all that?"

"Yes, fine," Arthur answered. "Yourself?"

"Peachy." Alfred grinned. _He's never changed, _Arthur thought. His expression quickly darkened. "You okay?" Alfred asked, slightly concerned.

"Yes, of course," Arthur said, and pushed open the door to the coffee shop.

They bought their drinks and sat down at a table by the window. Alfred chatted easily, and Arthur listened, but his thoughts drifted. He no longer saw Alfred as the carefree nation he had generally thought him to be. He no longer saw the easy, if unconventional and guarded, relationship that they had formed over the years. When he looked at Alfred now, all he could see were years of misunderstandings, hatred, and small betrayals built up between them. _How can I surmount that? _Arthur thought helplessly. _I didn't even know it was there. _

"Hey Artie, you sure you're okay?" Alfred asked. "You're being kinda . . . quieter than usual."

"Hmm? Oh. No, I'm fine." He hesitated, then added, "Just a lot on my mind."

"Like what?" Alfred was looking at him. There was a mixture of interest and concern in his eyes that made Arthur want to let all his guards down. He buried his face in his tea. The steam was warm on his skin.

"Well," he said finally, "I think my relationship with some other countries may be in jeopardy."

"Yeah? How come?"

Arthur looked at his tea as he swirled it in a circle. "I think I've been more a pain in the arse these last few years than I realized." _Try my entire history. _

Alfred laughed. Arthur scowled at him. "Dude, you've _always _been a jerk. A little late to notice it now."

The pain shot through Arthur like an electric shock. He stood up and slammed his paper cup of tea down on the table, nearly sloshing it all over his hand. "Thank you so much for telling me now, _Alfred,_" he hissed, and stormed out of the shop. He did not see Alfred's shocked expression.

Fuck Alfred. Fuck the world. He had thought the letters were giving him a chance to make his relationship with Alfred – no, _America, _he wasn't going to think of him as a person any longer – into something better. Instead, they were giving him the chance to make it into something worse.

The next time a letter came, Arthur crumpled it into a ball without reading it. It lay in his trash bin for a day before he couldn't stand it any longer. He took it out, unfolded it, and read it. It wasn't so bad, just a bit melancholy. One part in particular caught his attention.

_There isn't really anything in particular that makes me think of you. There used to be, I think: the ocean on a stormy day, the smell of cooking fish, burnt food, little things like that. Sometimes, yeah, stuff like that makes me remember particular things, but I think that I think about you a lot more than I realize. _

Arthur reread it, then put it with the others. He sat down at his desk and put his head in his hands. _I think about you a lot too, Alfred, _he thought. _More than I'd like. _

* * *

><p>A month later, Francis came to visit. "<em>Mon ami," <em>he said after the pleasantries, "Lately I have noticed . . . you seem unhappy. What is the matter?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Arthur said crisply. He set about making a pot of tea to give himself something to do.

"Hardly," Francis said, leaning languidly against the doorjamb. "You have been in a foul mood for much longer than usual. It makes cooperating with you very difficult."

"Alfred and I are not on the best of terms at the moment," Arthur snapped. "I hardly think you care about my relations with other countries."

Francis chuckled. "Is that all? It is hardly something to be concerned about. You and Alfred have been this way many times in the past. It is never permanent." Arthur's mouth just tightened. The water finished boiling and he poured it over the tea leaves. Francis had not expected him to remain silent. Perhaps it was worse than he had feared. "Ah . . . I do not care about your relations with other countries, no. I do care about your relations with other _people. _Was the disagreement of a more personal nature?" 

"There was no disagreement." Arthur put some biscuits, the teapot, a pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugar, and two cups onto a tray, and then carried it past Francis and into the sitting room. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you." Francis remained standing and watched as Arthur poured himself a cup. "Have you discussed it with him?"

"There is nothing to discuss." Arthur sipped his tea and swore when he burned his tongue.

"I generally find that when you say that, you are wrong," Francis said with some amusement. "Besides, I do not necessarily mean that you should _speak _to him. That always seems to go horribly wrong with you two."

"Then what _are _you suggesting?" Arthur snapped.

"You should write to him."

Arthur scowled at his cup of tea. "Certainly not."

Francis leaned over the back of the ornately decorated couch and looked down at Arthur. "You can't tell me you have nothing to say. You've always been very . . . verbose."

Arthur snorted, knowing that Francis was thinking of less than flattering instances. "That's one way to put it."

"_Mon ami . . ._" Francis hesitated. He knew this was delicate ground he was treading on. "Alfred has always been one to value the written word. I know it is against your nature to write down your true thoughts, but clearly talking face-to-face is getting you nowhere."

It was after Francis left half an hour later that Arthur tried, for the first time, to write to Alfred not as a country, but a "person," as Francis put it. As a friend.

He failed horribly, and his foul mood did not lift until several months later, when the letters once again reliably became what they had been before: thoughtful, but not terribly personal, commentary on the writer's thoughts of Arthur Kirkland.


	6. Chapter 5: The First Human Moon Landing

_Chapter 5: The First Human Moon Landing (1969)_

Eventually, Francis got a new boss. It was 1969, seven years since Arthur had started receiving the letters. Ivan was still making them all nervous, but as soon as his new boss took office, Francis seemed to relax. He was more cordial towards Arthur at meetings and he didn't seem to mind Alfred's presence so much. Whenever Arthur saw Alfred, he was ecstatic; he had landed the first ever humans on the Moon. That made Arthur smile, despite the obvious boost it had given Alfred's ego.

The letters, too, took a turn for the better. They became more positive, more joyful. Arthur had long since grown used to them, and they no longer affected him as they once had. The first Tuesday of every month, he collected his mail and brought it inside. He always opened the unmarked envelope last, read the letter, put it in its drawer, and recycled the envelope. Today, though, he didn't put the letter away. It lay open on his desk for a long, long time.

_Dear Arthur, _

_I've been thinking a lot lately. I know you think that's actually impossible for me, but let me tell you, it happens every now and then. I've made a lot of mistakes, I know, and I'm not just talking about with everything in general – I'm talking about us. I never end up saying what I want to around you. There aren't a whole lot of things I regret, but I'm beginning to think that that is going to be one of them. Have I ever told you that I love you? Because I do. And not like I did when a was a little colony that you could balance on your knee. You know that's why I fought you, right? I'd had a crush on you for longer than that, I think, but that was about when I realized that you and I were feeling two different things. _

_That's all. Just thought you should know. _

Arthur stared. He had never, ever, once in all the years of his existence dreamed that Alfred would tell him what he had just read. Any of it. Maybe _yearned _to hear those words, but never believed that there was a possibility that he would. And suddenly, the letters mattered. They mattered a lot. Who had sent them, who had written them, whether Alfred knew that Arthur was reading them – it all mattered a lot. So the first Tuesday of the next month, Arthur _waited _by the mailbox until the postman showed up. It was raining. He didn't care.

"Hello," said the postman curiously, and walked swiftly towards him with a bundle of letters held under his coat. He reached past Arthur to open the mailbox. Arthur's hand shot out and grabbed his arm.

"Wait," Arthur said, and his eyebrows brooked no argument. "Show me the letters."

The postman complied, carefully displaying them under the cover of Arthur's umbrella. "Are you Arthur Kirkland?"

"Yes. That one; where did you get it?" Arthur pointed to only blank envelope. It was cream-colored and made of good, thick paper, just like the others.

"That one?"

"Yes. I've received them before, as I'm sure you're aware. It doesn't have my address on it, so how do you know it's mine?" Arthur pinned the postman down with his eyes.

"Well, I'm not supposed to say, sir," the postman replied reluctantly. "I don't know his name, he said it was very important that it was anonymous–"

"A description of his appearance would be sufficient."

"He's got blond hair, longish. Kind of some stubble on his chin, like. Blue eyes. Dresses nice."

"Does he have an accent?"

"Yeah . . . French, maybe?" the postman said thoughtfully.

Arthur's mouth tightened. "Thank you." He took the letters and walked back inside.

The next day, he payed Francis a visit.

* * *

><p>"I know it's you, frog, so don't deny it."<p>

Francis blinked down at the scowling man standing on his doorstep. "Pardon?"

"Just let me inside." Arthur brushed past Francis and into his front hall. When Francis had closed the door and Arthur had given a cursory look around to make sure no one else was present, he turned back to Francis. "The letters. I know you've been sending them. I don't know why I didn't bother to ask the postman earlier."

"Oh." Francis sighed heavily. "Would you like a seat?"

Arthur didn't answer, simply remained standing. "Why have you been doing it? And where have you been getting them?" It came out as a growl.

"Really, I think we should sit."

"Fine." Arthur followed him into his sitting room and sat on the edge of a thinly upholstered armchair. Francis sat across from him on the couch and gave him a pitying look. "Well?"

"I never intended for you to find out it was me. I was more careful at the beginning. I'm sorry I became lax."

"Yes. I gathered that I was to assume that they were from Alfred?"

"Indeed, for they were. I did not forge them, or edit them, or damage them in any way. I do not expect you to take my word for it, of course."

"He didn't know, though."

"No. I stole them from him." Arthur raised his eyebrows. "I assume that you will agree with me," Francis continued, "That it was the right thing to do. You should know what the letters contain, as they do concern you."

"And I'm supposed to assume that you cared so deeply for my well-being?" Arthur said sarcastically.

"I admit, my intentions were not altogether benign at first. I had hoped to cause a rift between you and Alfred. When I finally found myself succeeding . . ." He drummed his fingers on his leg. "I had not realized how seriously it would affect you."

"Somehow I doubt that."

"You are hard to read, Arthur." Francis's blue eyes were serious. "I have been sending them since then in the way that they were meant to be sent: to allow you to understand Alfred a little better."

"They were never meant to be sent at all."

Francis shrugged. "Never _intended _to be sent? Almost certainly. Meant? That is a different matter." Arthur frowned. "Besides, since you are here now, I assume you want me to stop."

"Yes. It's disgusting what you've been doing."

Francis gave him a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Perhaps, but anything to aid _l'amour, n'est pas?" _

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Well, I'll be leaving then."

"Before you do . . ." Francis stood. "I have one letter that I thought should be the last. It should be sent, as letters are meant to be, but since you are here . . ." Francis disappeared into a neighboring room, and moments later he reappeared with an envelope. "You should have it. Return it to him with the rest, when you do. I have no others."

Arthur took it and left. He opened it in the taxi on his way to the Channel Tunnel and home. It was dated 1798, and was certainly the earliest letter he had received. The paper felt as though it were about to fall apart in his hands.

_My dear Arthur,_

_I have been thinking of you often as of late. The sky is often covered with clouds here, and I long for the sunshine that you always said I promised you. My days all seem dark now, and I think it is because of the way things stand between us. I took the only course of action I felt was open to me, but I know you see it otherwise, and it is for this reason that I feel uneasy. I fear that with our latest agreement, we have entered upon a relationship utterly unlike the one we had before it, and so utterly unlike the one I had once hoped to have that it cannot and will not be what I hoped. It was for that hope, the hope that you could one day recognize me as an equal, that I rebelled against you. _

_Said in so many words it sounds simple, but it is not. By "equal" I do not mean equally powerful or equally respected. I mean equal in such a way that you would find me worthy of you. I am sure you cannot comprehend why I would want such a thing. If you could know how often my thoughts fly to you, you would laugh at me, I am sure of it. Yet I do not think I am in the wrong. To have such a strong feeling for you, and have it not only not returned, but also actively rejected – surely that would be the worst feeling in the world. Thus, I will say nothing. Surely you understand that this is not cowardice; it is doing what is best for my people. I cannot be weak, especially not now. Perhaps when I am your equal, at least in some manner, I will not need to write these words, but will be able to speak them and find no weakness for it. _

_Yours always,  
>Alfred<em>

Arthur sat back and closed his eyes. It did not matter if they were open or not, for he was blinded by tears.


	7. Chapter 6: Fin

_Author's note: _This is the last chapter. I know a lot of you are going to be disappointed, but let me just say that right now, this is the best I can do. I really like the idea of this story (unsent letters being revealed to their intended recipient long after they were written), and I would really like to read it, but somehow I was never able to pull it together and write it the way I wanted to. Normally I'd be unhappy if you stole an idea from me, but if you want to write this story, please do. Send me a link and I'll read it. Maybe you can do a better (or at least different) job than me. :) As it is, enjoy what you can. Hopefully you can get more out of it than I can.

Edit: Thanks to dawnfire216 for pointing out that Arthur's letters should be spelled the British way. Fixed now. :)

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 6: Fin<em>

Arthur sat down to write once again. This time he wasn't going to give up. _One word at a time, _he thought. _Alfred: _That came first. He had never thought that writing one word could be so difficult. He paused, staring at it, and took a deep breath. He expected to feel terrified and at a loss of how to continue, but instead he felt strange, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He could feel the words building on the tip of his tongue, words he had held back for far too long. He touched pen to paper and started writing.

* * *

><p>"Hello?" asked Alfred into the phone. He yawned, stuck in the White House and bored out of his mind.<p>

"Hello Alfred. It's Arthur," came the reply. "I have need of you in London. When is the soonest you can be here?"

"What?" Alfred shot upright in his chair. "Why? What's happened? Should I call the Pres?"

"No, actually. I just have need of you."

"Um, okay," said Alfred uncertainly. He drummed his fingers on the table. "I can leave in like, um, three hours? I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Okay," Arthur said crisply. "I've already booked you a hotel. I'll give you the address and meet you there."

Alfred opened his mouth to protest, so say, _Why can't I just stay at your place like usual? _but Arthur just kept talking, and then he hung up before Alfred had a chance to interrupt. Arthur's voice had sounded strangely flat, like it did sometimes when he was nervous and trying to cover it up. _Arthur, _he thought worriedly, _What the hell is going on?_

* * *

><p>Alfred's flight landed on English soil at 10:58 the next morning. He took a taxi to the address Arthur had given him. It was a touristy hotel, with too much patterned wallpaper and little lotions in the bathroom but no shampoo. He went up to his room, showered, and took a nap. At exactly noon, there was a knock on his door.<p>

"Hey, Artie."

"Hello Alfred." Arthur's hair was untidier than usual and he seemed very tense. He was holding a cardboard box in his arms, and there was an envelope placed on top.

"Uh, come in." Arthur did so, walking past him and setting the box down on the little coffee table. Alfred closed the door and walked over to stand across from him. They both looked at the box. "What is it?"

"Well," Arthur said, and stopped. "I suppose you should see for yourself." He put the envelope aside, opened the box, and handed it to him. "Have a seat."

Alfred sank down into the armchair and carefully pulled out the first piece of paper. He scanned it quickly. _1789, _it said. _My dearest Arthur. _His face became perfectly blank. He put it aside and looked at the next one, and the next, and then he put them all back in neatly. He had seen enough. He looked up at Arthur, his expression suddenly drawn and tired. "I see."

Arthur had remained standing, his hands in his pockets. "Francis sent them to me."

"Why?"

Arthur shook his head. "I don't really know. I don't think it really matters. It sounded like his intentions changed while he was sending them."

"So he's been sending them to you for a long time, then?"

Arthur shrugged. "Ten years, more than." Alfred knew what the shrug meant: _Not so long to us, usually; but for this, yes, a long time. _

Alfred looked down at the box. He realized he was gripping its edges too tightly. "You've read them all, then."

"Yes." They both waited for the other to speak, to say something, anything. Finally Arthur picked up the envelope and tossed it into Alfred's lap, on top of the other letters. "That's for you. Read it. If you need to reach me, you know where to find me." He turned as if to leave.

"Wait," Alfred said firmly. "I . . . don't leave until I've finished reading it, okay?" He wasn't looking at Arthur, he was looking at the envelope. Arthur's mouth tightened and he nodded crisply. He went back to where he had been standing and eyed the wall, trying to resist the urge to pace. Alfred slowly picked up the envelope. "_Alfred" _was scrawled across its surface. He flipped it over. It had been sealed. He opened it with his thumb.

The paper was clearly high quality – probably the best, knowing Arthur. He could tell from the way the ink looped and swirled that it had been written with a real fountain pen. He ran a thumb along the edge of the smooth, luxurious paper, and began to read.

_Alfred,_

_When you were young, I felt threatened by you. Not militarily, not because of resources, but emotionally. Perhaps you cannot understand what it is like to put so much of yourself into another person. Even that statement, I am sure, you will contest, but I mean what I say. You rejected a lot of it, yes, but I had still put a lot into raising you, more than you realised. When you told me you no longer wanted me, I was hurt. I saw no reason why you would want to fight against me, and I realised then that I no longer understood you. I no longer knew who you were. I had thought that I would always know you best, but you proved me wrong. _

_There are some parts of you I will never understand, and I accept that. At that time, however, I thought that you had become a completely different person. I recognise now that you have never truly changed. I know that you will take that as an insult, but that is not how I intend it. Your smile and your desire to help others are what I always admired about you, from the moment I met you. They have never faded. _

_I have seen you as an equal for many years now. In some ways, I know, you have surpassed me, but I am not talking about your strength as a country. I am talking about simply how I see you. I realise now that our misunderstandings are far greater than I had believed. What you wish to do with that knowledge is up to you. _

_For what it is worth, I wish you had sent me the letters __– a__ll of them, even the ones that are harsh. They allowed me to understand you better than I have in years, perhaps ever. I only wish I could return the favour. _

_Arthur_

Arthur heard the crisp sound of paper being folded. He didn't turn around.

Alfred cleared his throat. "So," he said.

"So," replied Arthur. _So this is it._ He heard Alfred stand so he turned around. He wasn't sure what he was expecting to see in Alfred's eyes – anger? Hatred? – but this wasn't it.

Alfred was still holding the folded letter in one hand. He had the look in his eye he got when he was playing hero, a mix of determination, passion, and nervousness. He came around the table and stood close to Arthur, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. Arthur looked back into those blue, blue eyes. "Thank you," Alfred said, indicating the letter. "It means a lot to hear that from you. You haven't written to me in a long time."

Arthur's mouth worked. "You're welcome," he finally said. "It was . . . difficult."

"I'd told you I'd say it, so I will." Alfred straightened his shoulders and his eyes glinted in the soft light. "I love you. I have for a long time."

Arthur's breath caught in his throat. He stared at Alfred, his mind perfectly blank. How long had wanted to hear those words? To say them? To know that they were meant for _him, _for him alone. His chest felt too tight and it _hurt_. He could think of nothing to say.

Alfred's eyes searched his for a moment, and then they fell down to his hands. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume that you don't want to hear that. But it's true."

"Don't assume that," Arthur finally choked out. "All of this has been caused by assumptions."

"Yeah," Alfred said. "Yeah, it has." He looked up at Arthur again and took a step forward. He was leaning over Arthur now. Probably without realizing it, he had backed Arthur almost against the wall. He looked straight into Arthur's eyes. "Just tell me, do you hate me?"

That had _not _been what Arthur had been expecting him to say. How could he ask that? How, in a million years, could he think that? "Hate you? Why would you . . . ?"

"Do you?" he pressed. "I've said a lot of things over the years, things I shouldn't have. I know I've made mistakes . . ."

"That would hardly make me _hate _you. No, Alfred, I don't hate you. I never have."

Alfred gave him a weak smile. "I've hated you, sometimes, when I felt like you were abandoning me. But it always passes quickly."

"Oh." The world dropped out from under him.

"That doesn't mean I haven't always loved you," Alfred whispered. His eyes were pleading. "Sometimes other feelings just get in the way."

"How can you–" Arthur started angrily, but Alfred cut him off.

He shook his head. "I don't expect you to understand, but that's all I wanted to know. Maybe it doesn't make sense to you that I would want to know if you hate me, but it's something . . . something I've always wondered about." His gaze drifted away from Arthur and Arthur knew that it was because he was remembering, reliving some time when he had been alone or Arthur had snapped at him, or looked at him with death in his eyes and almost wanted to kill him because it hurt _so much . . . _The tight feeling in his chest increased to a breaking point, and then it exploded. Suddenly Arthur was angry, and the strength of the emotion almost bowled him over. He grabbed Alfred's chin in one hand and _made_ him look into Arthur's eyes.

"Don't you dare think that I'm lying to you," he growled. "I have _never hated you, _do you understand?" Alfred looked at him with wide, surprised eyes and nodded. "Can't you at least have the sense to ask the right question? After all this time, and all you can ask is if I _hate _you? We don't need any more misunderstandings or avoidance of the issue. _I love you. That's _the answer to the question you should have asked, _that's _what I would have said had you told me what was going through your head two hundred years ago!"

"Two hundred years ago you thought I was just a kid. You even wrote it down in the letter," Alfred said exasperatedly. "That's not what I want, and you know it."

Arthur released his chin angrily. "I'm not _telling _you two hundred years ago!" Arthur practically shouted. "I'm telling you _now!" _

Alfred looked like he had just been hit over the head with a brick. "What?"

"_This _is why we have so many understandings! You are _so bloody dense _sometimes. Why has it taken _this long _to get to this point? You don't expect me to find it confusing that you hate me in one letter and consider me a friend in the next? You think that once something's written down it can't change, but a word isn't about to make time stop moving! It's better to have nothing written down at all than have what you wrote down become false." Arthur stopped. He was breathing heavily. Alfred was looking at him, his mouth slightly agape. Abruptly, he closed it, leaned over, and kissed Arthur.

Arthur kissed him back. It was everything he could have ever wanted it to be, if he had ever dreamed it was possible, if he had ever dreamed that Alfred could one day be _his _again – but not _his _as he had been so long ago, his in a way that was so much better. His in a way that Arthur could be his too.

"Look, Artie," Alfred said softly when they separated, "You were right, in the letter. We've got a lot of misunderstandings to overcome, and I bet that some of my letters just made it worse, because I wrote some of them when I was hurt and angry and just wanted someone to blame." He let a hand caress Arthur's cheek and took a deep breath. "But I'm not really worried about that stuff. We can figure it out." He smiled. "I'm just worried about us."

It hurt Arthur to see how sad and vulnerable Alfred looked when he said that, despite his smile. _You don't have anything to worry about, _Arthur wanted to tell him. _I'll make sure of it. _But he knew he couldn't make sure of it, so he just kissed Alfred instead.

* * *

><p>A week and a half later, a box arrived on Arthur's doorstep. An envelope had been taped to the outside. He opened it.<p>

_Dear Arthur, _

_These are for you. You should have them. They're yours, after all. _

_Alfred_

It was full of letters, not a single one of which Arthur had seen before. Arthur set the box on his desk, pulled out the first piece of paper, and started reading.

A week later, a letter arrived in Alfred's mailbox. The handwriting was unmistakably Arthur's.

_Dear Alfred, _

_The letters were lovely. Thank you. I think it would be pointless for me to analyse them and everywhere we went wrong. Instead I will simply explain my side of events, and hope that we can have a new start. _

_Where to begin? I could start at the moment I first heard of your existence, but I do not think that is relevant. I will start with the first time I saw your wide-open skies, and the first time I met you, when you were so young and full of possibilities. At the time, I thought I was drawn to you by curiosity and greed for what you could be, what I could make you be – but the moment you chose me over Francis, I knew I was wrong. _

_Even then, you captured my heart. _


End file.
